


Leave What's Heavy, What's Heavy Behind

by diadema



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 08:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13994865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: An exploration of trinkets, touchstones, traditions. The ways we cope and the people who see us through it.In the aftermath of a mission gone wrong, Illya offers Gaby his support.





	Leave What's Heavy, What's Heavy Behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Somedeepmystery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/gifts).



> Happy (belated) birthday, Sdm! I know I haven't finished up your other gift just yet, but I couldn't let your birthday go by without commemorating it in some way. Thank you for being my dear, dear friend and a light in our community. Hope you enjoy this little story... you'll probably see where I drew my inspiration from. :P
> 
> ***
> 
> Title is from Birdtalker's song, [Heavy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OdrSSRYgfVk). It's one of my favorites at the moment, and while it didn't directly inspire this story, it pairs with it uncannily well. Give it a listen when you get the chance!
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading! Research notes down below. Comments are always appreciated! <3

The Grand Bazaar is just as he remembers it: the relentless press of the crowds jockeying for space in the covered market, the roaring tides of conversations—countless languages swirling like incense around him.

There is a vibrancy here that heightens all his senses, disorienting and demanding in equal measure. It sparks something, awakens something in his partners. He sees it in the squaring of Cowboy’s shoulders, the light in Gaby’s eyes.

For Illya, this place will always have a way of getting under his skin.

Not even three months have passed since they’ve found themselves back in the haze and heat and hurry of Istanbul. Back on official business. Back in this wretched tourist trap that _still_ seems to taunt him, sets shivers down his spine and a flush up his neck.

For isn’t _this_ how it has gone before?

Gaby drifting dreamlike through the endless rows of shops while Illya tries not to stare, ignores the twinging in his stomach when her dark eyes catch his. Too soon, they are gone, leaving him cold though inside, he is anything but.

Three months ago, she had beckoned him… prowled through the stalls like a panther, holding his gaze as she wandered in and out of his field of vision: hidden by a hundred wares and a thousand bodies, winding through the different streets.

Every now and then, she would stop. Check that she was still holding his attention, reward his devotion with the slightest smirk. She’d adjust her hair, her hem to gift him with glimpses of a graceful neck, a delicate wrist, tawny legs.

Then like a mirage, Gaby would vanish and the chase would begin again.

Illya had lumbered clumsily after her, slogging through the muddled thoughts and warring desires that tugged him back. The mission faded to a memory—a new objective took precedence, driving his heavy footsteps to that corridor, that intersection where Gaby was waiting for him.

Waiting for _him._

He was dizzy with the rise of her perfume and other spices as she stepped into his space. Her palms were flat on his chest where she _must_ have felt his pulse thundering wildly, his stuttered, labored breaths.

_“Kiss me.”_

Here, crowded against the wall, masked by a steady stream of civilians, they were invisible. Illya’s arms were curving around her slender form even before his brain could catch up. Her dare was ghosting along his neckline, hot breaths urging him to finish what they had started in Rome.

Gaby had given him a direct order. A test.

And he had failed.

It might have been the flash of a blue suit in the periphery or the two figures walking against the grain of the crowd, but Illya had stilled, braced as he was over her. He had seen those men before.

The realization slid like ice down his spine when he realized they’d been followed. Illya stifled a curse, hands dropping from Gaby’s waist. It would have been natural, quick thinking to kiss her, preserve what flimsy semblance of a cover they’d constructed.

Instead, Illya had stepped away from her, already reaching for his gun. “This is no time for games,” he hissed before diving into the sea of bodies before him.

Illya swallows as he watches Gaby, padding slowly now down that same corridor. He would like to imagine her step had faltered, that her gaze had lingered over the spot: a memorial, perhaps, for the chance, the _companionship_ he had squandered.

His hands curl into fists as he stalks after her, determined to keep his mind on the mission this time. Gaby and Cowboy have their marks and he has their backs, shadowing them all from a safe distance.

They are at separate shops: the American bartering spiritedly with a purveyor of ‘genuine imitation leather’ and the mechanic examining jewelry across the way. The vendor has taken a liking to her, standing too close for Illya’s comfort, too forward in how he speaks to her.

He resists the urge to step in on her behalf. Illya takes a deep breath, focuses his attention on their marks. Redundant, he knows, for Gaby has yet to forget—or forgive—his scolding, but he finds it easier to concentrate this way.

Especially when the light plays against her earrings every time she tilts her head. His gaze lingers on the curve of her jaw, the dark blue ‘evil eye’ dangling beside it. He had scoffed at the superstition, but that hadn’t stopped him from pulling out his wallet to buy them for her.

Illya hasn’t seen them on Gaby since… wonders that she _hadn’t_ thrown them out all those weeks ago. He would hardly blame her if she did.

He frowns when Gaby reaches for her purse. She is not one for trinkets, not the type to be weighted down by sentiments or souvenirs. He wonders what has so caught her attention, gawks when she lifts it up: a thin chain with a glass pendant. A perfect match for her earrings.

Gaby calls the vendor over and, to Illya’s annoyance, he is more than happy to oblige. Illya can’t hear the words, but from the mechanic’s demure smile, he assumes the man is lavishing her with compliments, giving the beautiful, young woman a very special discount.

There is a new ache in his chest as he watches this transaction, one that troubles instead of teases. It should warm him, seeing Gaby complete the set he started, but it doesn’t. For he can see it in the harried way she fastens the necklace, that it is not sentiment that drives this purchase.

It is humbling—and more than a little devastating—to realize she _needs_ this talisman. Believes that it will somehow keep her safe. As if Illya’s protection were not enough to reassure her.

Illya shakes his head, tamping down the tenderness, the disappointment welling up inside him. A change has come over Gaby recently. She won’t talk about it and they won’t ask. Instead, they pretend that her performance is convincing. It is as if she were an understudy in her own life.

 _A_ _genuine imitation._

Gaby lingers at the little shop, poring over its other offerings. The marks have yet to advance, but Illya doesn’t think the mechanic is stalling. She runs her hands over the rows and rows of beads with something more than idle curiosity, smoothing over tassels and charms, testing their weight in her hands.  

She sets down the beads, a little disappointedly, when the marks begin to wander off. Solo is several paces ahead of her, so Illya deems it safe to take a detour. He strides up to the shop, examining its wares for himself.

The vendor takes him on a whirlwind tour before he can even ask: Catholic rosaries and Islamic _misbahas,_ Greek _komboloi_ worry beads, Eastern Orthodox _lestovki_ that the Old Believers (like Illya’s grandmother) would use, and—the ones that had appealed most to Gaby—the Buddhist and Hindu malas.

The vendor hums as Illya’s hands trace the same path Gaby’s had taken… over the hand-knotted beads, the larger, central one, and finally, through the silk tassel extending from it.

“They are powerful, yes?”

Off Illya’s startled look, the man smiles. “The stones. You can feel the energy from them, can’t you?  That one there helps tame an anxious mind. _Very_ calming.”

The beads are cool beneath his fingers, pleasant to the touch, though Illya hardly thinks there could be anything more to it.

“You don’t believe me,” the vendor says, his smile widening, “but it is true. You may use the mala to meditate or wear it on your wrist, your neck, carry it around with you or leave it by your bedside. It will work just the same.”

Illya huffs for lack of a better response. He frowns, mulling over something the man had said. Something he had once seen in Gaby’s file, something he has seen increasing evidence of these past few weeks.

“You said this was good for anxi—”

A gunshot stills the word on his tongue. The bazaar erupts into chaos as Illya sighs and takes off running.

 

* * *

 

They are staying in the Beyoglu district—the European side of Istanbul. Rich with history, but much more modern and cosmopolitan than the areas they’ve seen previously.

The architecture, in particular, had intrigued Illya when they’d first arrived: a mix of Neo-Classical and Neo-Gothic, Art Deco and Modern, with other French and Italian influences thrown in. A seeming clash of styles and cultures that somehow seems to work.

 _Like UNCLE,_ he’d decided.

The old buildings hold little charm for Illya by the time they retire for the evening: a cramped, dingy hostel. They are under direct orders from Waverly to “not raise any eyebrows” while they’re there. As such, he and Solo are sharing a room while Gaby is sleeping next door.

At least, she is _supposed_ to be.

Late into the night, Illya hears her wearing grooves into the hardwood floor with her constant pacing, punctuated by the _thunk_ of a glass on a table, the scrape of furniture being moved, the radio hissing to life as she searches for something to dance to.

Her steps get heavier, movements clumsier as the hours stretch on. Illya has long given up on reading. _The Murder on the Orient Express_ lays open in his lap, untouched. Not even  the great Hercule Poirot can coax Illya from his worry.

Cowboy lays sprawled on his stomach in the twin bed beside him. He had chosen to stay in for the evening… though whether it is out of regard for Waverly’s warning or merely to spite Illya in this too-small space, he can’t say for sure.

The man’s breaths are slow and even, but unmistakably, he is still awake. With an irritated glance at his watch, Illya slams the book shut and pushes to his feet.

“Going somewhere, Peril?”

Illya falters, whirls on the American. _Where_ can _he go?_ Not to her room. He could go to another hotel, but he knows he won’t. Not when Gaby is next door, her restlessness thrumming through him, making him want to claw at his skin, break down all the walls between them.

He is trapped here, as she is trapped, and can do little more than scowl at his partner. The helplessness he feels bubbles over into anger. “She is not even _trying_ to sleep. Keeping us all awake when we have important day ahead—”

“You could sleep through an air raid if you wanted to,” Cowboy drawls, eyes still closed. “It’s not the noise that’s getting to you. It’s the _reason_ for it.”

Illya folds his arms over his chest. He refuses to acknowledge the truth in that statement. But the American continues, undeterred.

“Something is bothering Gaby which means _something_ is bothering you. You won’t rest unless she does. Simple as that.”

“And you?” he huffs. _“You_ are not affected by this?”

“I said no such thing.” There is a coolness to his voice that surprises him. Guilt prickles up his spine, but Illya shrugs it off, determined to stoke the dying embers of his frustration.

“Well, _I_ cannot just ignore it,” he grumbles.

His partner rolls onto his back, exhales heavily through his nose. “What would you like for me to tell you, Peril? That you should go next door, have a heartfelt tête-à-tête? Maybe warm up a glass of milk while you’re at it, see if Gaby _won’t_ start counting sheep for you?”

“What about beads?”

The question leaves his mouth before he think better of it. And he does, now that it’s out there. Illya scrunches his eyes shut. Suffers.

“Beads.” Cowboy’s short, knowing hum sets Illya’s teeth immediately on edge. “Like the ones you two were ogling earlier?”

“Forget it. I—”

“It could work, you know,” he muses. “They’re tactile. And the repetition—certainly—could be soothing to some. I, for one, would never negate the power of touch.”

An absent nod from Illya. He tunes the American out until…

“That’s something _you_ could help her with, can’t you, Peril?”

He is saved from his indignant, incoherent sputtering when the radio abruptly cuts out. Her footsteps thunder out of the room as if she can’t get out of this place fast enough. Her door slams shut long after they hear the stairs creaking beneath her feet.

Solo sighs, settling deeper into the sheets. “My bet’s on Saint Anthony’s. It’s further away, but more likely to be… welcoming to a young woman this time of night.”

Illya grunts in acknowledgement, already pulling on his shoes. He takes a moment to quell the shaking in his hands before quietly slipping out after her.

 

* * *

 

A languid silence that greets him as Illya makes his way to Istiklal Caddesi—the aptly named Independence Avenue. He stops at every house of worship he passes, trying to divine some sign of the mechanic.

This has become something of a routine for him.

Illya can trace it back to Barcelona. Her first kill. It had shaken Gaby, but he knows that she would do it again without hesitation. Will likely have to in their line of work.

No, it is not the life she took that haunts her, but the other lives that were lost that day.

Illya had had no words for her then. At least, no words that mattered. No words that could reach into the dark, wounded place inside her, pluck the shrapnel from her aching soul.

He could see it in her eyes that she blamed herself, worries that she always will. Gaby had done everything right that day.

It hadn’t been enough.

Drinking and dancing don’t have the same effect they once did. Nights on the town have given way to evenings in and, when that doesn’t work, she has taken to wandering the streets like a lost ghost, seeking refuge in holy ground.

Illya has searched for Gaby’s shoes outside of mosques, strained for glimpses of her over the partition walls in synagogues, and peered through the doorways of churches for dangling earrings, a familiar ponytail.

In the early hours of the morning, Illya finally finds her. _Sent Antuan Bazilikası—_ just as Solo had predicted. He takes off his cap before entering, clutching it in his hands as he stares at her from the doorway.

He is startled when she looks at him, inclines her head ever so slightly in invitation. This is the first time she has acknowledged his presence, confirming his stake in her secret. Illya is careful not to sit too close to her when he slides into the pew.

“Atmosphere,” Gaby says, preemptively answering his question. Her shrug is a defensive one, daring him to judge her for it. Illya merely nods in response. He’s expected as much. A yearning for something solemn and still and sacred.

“Peaceful.”

“Safe,” she adds. Gaby bites her lip and quickly turns her face away. Her hands tremble in her lap, a spasm that wracks through Illya’s own fingers. Inadequacy rears its ugly head again. He swallows it down.

“Do you—do you want to talk about it?”

She is silent as she studies him, leans into him with a torn exhale. Illya slowly, tentatively wraps an arm around her, waiting for any signal to pull away. Pull her closer.

His answer comes when Gaby rests her head on his shoulder. She shuts her eyes to the tears threatening to spill over, clasps his free hand between her own.

This is the closest she has been to him in months: an absolution of his guilt, perhaps. An opportunity to repent.

So Illya takes it.

He stares at the candlelit altar and the shadowed stained glass beyond, his thumb gently stroking her skin. If this is all he can do, that he can give, then it is hers. Anything, everything she could ask of him. Anything and everything, too, that she couldn’t.

He will guard her silence, a sentinel in a dark church and in her dark times. When Gaby is ready, he knows, he _hopes_ that she will come to him.

Until then, he will wait.

It may have been hours or merely moments before she finally stirs. Illya immediately lifts his arm as she stands, is startled when she tugs him by the wrist to follow her.

Gaby leads them to the by-altar where votive candles flicker in invitation. She takes a wick and eases it into one of the flames, selects her own candle to light.

“For remembrance,” she tells him. “At least, that’s what Waverly tells me.”

Illya nods. He doesn’t know who she is remembering or if it is okay to ask. Is it for Udo or her foster father? For the lives lost in Barcelona? Maybe both… or maybe, there are other secrets, other horrors locked away in her past.

“Can,” he starts, stops. Clears his throat. Starts again. “Can I…?”

He takes the wick and lights the candle beside hers. It reminds him of his grandmother and her church, the long, tapered candles that graced their side altars. Memories of Spanish Steps and Russian architects warms his cheek as he chooses to remember _his_ beloved Yagoda and her son, his father.

He and Gaby look upon these scattered prayers and tributes. A respectful moment of silence. She squeezes his hand briefly, nods at the altar in a sort of half-bow before stepping away. A handful of coins rattle into a donation box before she disappears through the double doors.

Illya makes his own contribution and sets off after her. The sky is just beginning to lighten when he puts his cap back on, extends his arm to Gaby. She hesitates before accepting.

He has missed this.

A block away from their hostel, Gaby drops his arm: an unspoken agreement. _Don’t raise any eyebrows._ Illya follows slowly behind her, enters the building a few moments later.

The door has barely clicked shut when the American greets him. “Is she okay?”

“She is strong,” he replies.

 _“Yes,_ but—”

“She has us.”

_“Us?”_

Illya notes the surprise, the almost grateful inflection in the word. He hums in acknowledgement and flops face-first onto his bed, leaving his shoes on. He is just drifting off to sleep, when Cowboy speaks again.

“Waverly called,” he adds, somehow managing to smirk through his yawn. “Turns out we’re not needed here any longer. Our extraction’s coming within the hour.”

Illya bolts upright, growling low in his throat as he charges towards the door. A steady stream of Russian obscenities accompanying his steps.

“I already told her,” Solo says. “Just before you came in.”

“I have _errand_ to run,” he snaps.

And run he does.

He sprints back down to Istiklal Caddesi (no time to get to the Grand Bazaar), past the Cumhuriyet Anıtı—the Republic Monument—where if he had stopped to look, he would have been proud to see the two Russians honored on it.

Instead, Illya is frantic, almost manic in his search: a shop he had seen in passing earlier, but only now registers as important. A string of beads in the window catches his attention. A confirmation he chases.

Illya barrels into the crowded space, wild-eyed and chest heaving. The owner gapes at him. He leaves her no time to recover from her shock before he is pointing to the malas behind her.

_“What do you have for insomnia?”_

 

* * *

 

“Get everything you wanted, Peril?” the American asks as he makes his way to the back of the transport. He pauses when he sees Gaby dozing against Illya’s shoulder, arches an eyebrow. If Illya didn’t know better, he might even think the man were grinning.

Illya puts a finger to his lips, motions for Solo to take a seat across.

“Something like this. Yes.”

 

* * *

 

The mala burns a hole in his pocket until they arrive in London. Cowboy has long since split ways with them in favor of the creature comforts he’d been long denied. Illya walks Gaby back to her flat, hovers uncertainly outside her door.

“I have something. For you.”

He hands her the necklace: alternating beads of purple and a translucent, dark gray, offset periodically by larger black spacers. The large, central stone is a hypnotic violet, the knotted thread and matching tassel a striking plum color.

“To help you… sleep,” he adds, hoping he doesn’t sound as ridiculous as he feels. But Illya has come too far now to stop. He points to the beads in turn. “Amethyst, smoky quartz. For good dreams, protection. Good for anxiety.”

He indicates the central bead next. “Guru stone,” he tells her. “This one is violet fluorite. Known as the ‘dream maker’.”

Gaby hums, betraying no emotion. She taps one of the spacers. “And these?”

“Shungite. From _Russia._ ” He puffs his chest out, starting to feel a tad more sure of himself. “It is known for healing properties. Ever since the time of Peter the Great.”

Gaby nods, turning the mala over in her hands. A curious look crosses her face. “Thank you, Illya,” she says, stepping quickly into her flat. A tight smile that he manages to return. Barely.

“Good night,” she tells him, already beginning to close the door on him.

“Good night.”

Illya curses his stupidity as he stalks down her hallway, hands jammed deep into his pockets. He has enough dignity to wait until he reaches her staircase before fleeing from the building.

He had overstepped his bounds, broken this unsteady truce.

Fool that he is, _when would he ever learn?_

 

* * *

 

Two months pass and the mala is little more than a bad dream. He can hardly appreciate the irony, is grateful that Gaby never brings it up.

 _He_ certainly won’t.

They are in Algiers, six weeks into a surveillance operation. It is immensely tedious work, but by taking it in shifts, he and Gaby have fallen into some semblance of a routine. It is rare that they are ever in bed at the same time.

He can only hope that it is not deliberate.

It has been 40 hours since he had left their shared flat. Illya had only been meant to follow his mark, shadow him over the course of a now, mind-numbingly familiar routine. But the man’s sudden detour had taken them on a wild goose chase throughout the country.

A day-and-a-half later and Illya is dragging his weary frame through the too-short doorway, heavily favoring his left leg. He expects Gaby to be awake, but finds her sprawled in the center of their bed instead… a set of purple beads clutched in her hands.

He stops. Stares. Smiles softly as he climbs into the bed beside her—what little space the mechanic _doesn’t_ occupy. She rouses slightly, blinks blearily up at him.

“Illya?”

_“Da.”_

Gaby nods and curls in on herself, eyes closing once more. Illya can’t help himself from staring. His hand grazes hers as he touches the mala beads. His voice is hushed, slightly awed by his discovery. “You kept these.”

“They keep the bad things away,” she mumbles. Her accent is heavier than normal. _His too,_ he thinks. “But since you’re here now…”

Gaby shuffles closer to him, one hand curling into the front of his shirt. Her head rests on his arm, one leg tossed carelessly over his thigh. She hums, content, and falls back to sleep. Once his heart starts beating again, Illya adjusts his arms around her and soon follows after.

 

* * *

 

Moscow is more austere than he remembers.

The climate is harsher, the faces harder. The landscape drained of color. It is a miracle he makes it to his flat without incident.

Illya’s hands shake though he has long stopped wondering if it were for the bitter cold or even frostier reception from Oleg. A tense briefing had followed before he had been dismissed.

Now, he is back. Not _home,_ but in his living space. A staging area from one assignment to the next.

His fingers fumble to open his suitcase and he has to stop to compose himself.  He concentrates on unpacking, hopes the ritual and repetition will soothe him. He snatches one of his turtlenecks and shakes it out. More forcefully than necessary. He had meant to refold it, but the garment drops to the floor, unheeded.

A flash of color had caught his eye.

Illya scrambles to grab it, run his fingers over the smooth stones, the soft tassel, as if it could somehow bring her here with him.

 _No._ As if it could somehow bring him there with  _her._

A sudden warmth, a sense of calm floods through him as Illya holds the mala to his chest. He can’t carry it with him when he’s on duty, but off the clock—if there even is such a thing here—he will keep it close by.

Illya can only guess at the sleight-of-hand Cowboy must have used to sneak it into his luggage. He imagines Gaby plotting with the American, the ways they would stall or distract him, break into his room, the unnecessary risks they would take. The way Waverly must have shaken his head, but indulged the two of them anyway.

He slips the beads around his neck and smiles for the first time since he left London.

 

* * *

 

A week later, Illya manages to place a call.

 _“I’ll be needing them back, you know,”_ Gaby teases. There are nearly three thousand kilometers between them, but the only distance that matters is the one from her voice to his ear. The mala seems to hum against his chest as he listens to her.

He wears the beads under his clothing when he’s out in public. And as he (blushingly) discovers, so had Gaby. He could smell her perfume, had often wondered about it. Now, he knows.

The revelation has sparked a newfound reverence in him.

“I will see to it that they are _personally_ returned,” he assures her.

Gaby won’t demand any promises from him, won’t give him the opportunity to even _consider_ breaking them.

_“Don’t forget.”_

Illya huffs, fond, and shakes his head at her insistence.

 

* * *

 

Three months go by with little more than an odd phone call to Gaby, an even odder one to Cowboy. It is almost impossible to catch the man while he is at home.

Nevertheless, it is good to speak to him. To _them._

Three long months without an episode and then Waverly is on the line. Illya is given coordinates and told to catch the next flight out.

His homecoming begins without preamble. He is trudging up the walkway to their safehouse when Cowboy emerges, evidently on his way out. If he seems surprised to see him, he hides it well.

“Peril,” the man greets him. “Good to see you.”

And it is.

Illya nods, claps him on the shoulder. The American tilts his head towards the door. “Two rooms,” he explains. “I trust you’ll have no objections sharing?”

A half-hearted glower that morphs into a frown as a thought strikes him. He _really_ can’t afford to be wrong on this one. “Sharing with whom?”

Cowboy smirks in response and waves him off.

Illya mutters under his breath as he stoops to enter the cottage. The nerves are dancing in his chest when he hears Gaby call down the hall—presumably speaking to the American.

“Did you forget something?”

He pads on silent feet towards her room, heart fluttering with anticipation. The mala dangles from Illya’s fingers as he leans in her doorway. “Did you think I would?”

She scrambles to her feet when she sees him. “Illya.”

Gaby worries over him, slender fingers grazing his face, sweeping down his arms as she checks him for any sign of injury.

“I am fine,” he rumbles, draping the mala around her neck. “It kept the bad things away.”

Illya tucks a loose curl back behind Gaby’s ear, tips her chin up to look at him. “But since you’re here…”

“We’ll be okay?”

 _“Da,”_ he says, tracing the line of her jaw. “We’ll be okay.”

And with her kiss still warm on his lips, Illya knows then that they will be.

**Author's Note:**

> Gaby visiting churches, temples, shrines, mosques, etc when life gets to be too much has become something of an Unshakable Headcanon for me. I don't know when or why the idea came to me, but it's stuck with me ever since.
> 
> Illya is reading The Murder on the Orient Express, published in 1934. It was written in the Pera Palas Oteli (Pera Palace Hotel) near where the team are staying in Beyoglu. Little Easter Egg from a not-so-secret Agatha Christie fan. :D
> 
> Saint Anthony's is Turkey's largest Catholic Church. It's in Beyoglu, which also houses the largest Jewish synagogue (Neve Shalom) as well as a variety of other mosques and places of worship.
> 
> The Cumhuriyet Anıtı, or Republic Monument, is on the pedestrian street/shopping district Istiklal Caddesi (Independence Avenue). It commemorates Turkey's overthrowing of the Ottoman Sultanate with the help of their Russian allies. It features, among other figures, Kemal Atatürk as well as the two Russians alluded to in the story: Mikhail Frunze and Kliment Voroshilov. 
> 
> Shungite is found in Karelia, Russia and has long been renowned for its incredible healing and water-purifying abilities, both anecdotally (including among royalty, such as Peter the Great) and scientifically. The other stones used in Gaby's mala (amethyst, violet fluorite, and smoky quartz) have metaphysical properties aligned with protection, grounding, treating insomnia, anxiety, depression, and have many, many other 'meanings' and uses ascribed to them.


End file.
